


After the Diary

by Hijja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja/pseuds/Hijja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some Horcrux soul fragments are harder to destroy than others…</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Diary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady of Clunn](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady+of+Clunn).



> Written as a giftficlet for the Crucio 2010 meetup. Beta-read by the amazing Lazy Neutrino.

There is always a sheen of water on the icy flagstones of the Chamber. In autumn and winter, when the rains pelt the Highlands, it can rise to two or three inches. On a wet summer, the water brims with the potential of a hot, crisp day spoiled.

Inside the Chamber, darkness prevails. The unceasing spill of water is polishing the surface of the ancient flagstones to the consistency of slick soap.

Towards the far end of the Chamber, where the statue of Salazar Slytherin rises like a foam-born demon, a patch of water is darker than the rest; impossible to make out in the gloom, but there nonetheless. It doesn't dilute; it pools like a film of oil.

It isn't oil, though. It is ink.

It is easy to let go of consciousness for days on end, to sink down, swaying with the laps and undercurrents. There is little to be conscious for – just the dark, the water, moving, unchanging.

He never loses sight of himself completely, however. He doesn't dare to. If he slips away, rests for too long, he will disperse, the puddle of ink washing away into the four corners of the Chamber, into nothingness. Not quite death, but something almost as terrible.

Instead, he builds himself, a construct of memory that was once contained in ink and parchments. He builds himself in the same way he had when there was a body to reconstruct, from pages and memory and power. He can't quite grasp the intricacies of a name – only that once there _was_ a name, and a stronger one trapped inside it. It will come back to him when he finds a body to stain and a mind to take root in.

There were bodies, once. His concept of time is obliterated by the unceasing swirl of water, but he senses a distance to those events, which suggests the past.

They barged in, disturbing the silence, the water, infusing the dead air with a rush of vibrant, mortal energy. They sought the body of the Basilisk, chilly and shriveled, its blood long dried, then swept up and diluted for lack of a still-binding spirit. Bones press up through thinning skin, but although its flesh sinks in, it doesn't rot. Nothing decays in the Chamber of Secrets. And nothing ever vanishes completely.

When they brandished the Basilisk's fang, dripping condensation, a terror gripped him that was almost too much for his washed-out self to contain. A tooth like this had pierced something rare and precious and had bled life and soul out of him. They did not move over to where he pooled, barely glanced in the direction, unable to distinguish, in the dark, between one dark puddle and another. When they had their prize they fled, leaving him stirred up for a long time.

They were what he needed, and it had been an opportunity lost, and yet his memory recoiled from the Basilisk fang and the devastation it could bring.

An opportunity lost, but it won't be the last, he knows.

Sometimes, he can see it with all the cryptic clarity of a prophecy – a slight figure will slip into the Chamber, steps hesitant from fear and wonder. A child – a boy. He will come, look down, touch the dark fluid, rubbing it between his fingers with a small frown, oblivious – still – to the remnants of life that rush in through his pores.

He can see the face, reflected on the surface of the water, shivering and waving with the slight undercurrents. A pale face, all inquisitive eyes and sharp bones under a shock of ink-black hair. An echo of his own, and the spitting image of the youngster who wielded the first Basilisk fang, and brought him to this.

But where the scar should run down the image's forehead, there is nothing. There are no glasses.

He revels in these visions, surging with hate and expectancy, stroking their promise with nonexistent fingers. He knows his time will come.

Until then, he exists.

And waits.

  
_~ finis ~_   



End file.
